


Crumbs

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fortune cookie leads Remus down an odd path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumbs

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

Remus waves the third bus away, and this time the driver gives him the finger. He politely ignores it and leans back as the bus splashes away from the curve, scattering the pavement in puddles.

It’s a rainy, miserable day, and Remus’ food is cold. It’s Chinese takeout, because if he sits in the restaurant, he’ll have to tip. It’s sad that he can’t afford that, but it’s arguably sadder that he can’t afford rent. If he goes home to eat, he’ll have to play the avoidance game with his slumlord, who’s becoming decidedly impatient.

So, Remus sits at a Muggle bus stop—the only undercover bench he could find. He’s wet from running here in the rain, his clothes too thin to warm him properly. He vaguely misses robes. But then, he isn’t sure he wants to return to the wizarding world just yet, not with all the chaos surrounding captured Death Eaters and the stigma of werewolves. Robes would make him more likely to be spotted. So, he’s in brown trousers and a matching jacket, raggedy and closed over his shirt. He reaches the bottom of his chow mein and mournfully scrapes at the sauce-covered paper with his chopsticks.

He needs a new job. It’s hard to keep one with all the monthly disappearances, but really, this is getting sad, even for him. Sighing heavily, Remus sticks his napkin into the box, picking up the only thing left. Fortune cookies come complimentary at that restaurant, and Remus could really use the standard, ‘today you will have good luck,’ or ‘it’s a good month for smiles.’

Remus snaps the cookie open. The usual crumbled paper topples out, and Remus picks it up as he pops the dried pastry into his mouth. Then he winces; it’s stale.

While unrolling the paper, it quickly becomes obvious that this fortune is much, much longer than what he normally gets. When he finally gets it smoothed out, he’s looking at a full paragraph rather than a sentence. Remus blinks dazedly at it—is someone playing a joke on him?

It gets stranger. The words are ridiculously specific, beginning with _‘stand up.’_

Because Remus doesn’t have anything better to do and nowhere to really go, (at least until ten o’clock when his landlady typically falls asleep, anyway) Remus obliges. He grabs his garbage and tucks it in the can besides the bench, reading on.

 _‘Walk two streets to your right.’_ Remus blinks at the creamy paper. The writing isn’t written by hand; it’s the usual fortune-cookie computer scrawl. He blinks out at the pouring rain. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to get wet. On the other hand, the marauder in him is _very_ curious. It isn’t much of an adventure, but since the war and his presumed ‘death,’ Remus hasn’t had any fun at all, and this seems oddly promising.

Deciding to go for it, Remus reads the rest all at once, so he can make a dash for it and get as not-soaked as possible.

 _‘Walk two streets to your right. Turn left and cross the street. Go up one block, enter the second building on your right.’_ Then Remus has to stop for a moment, because things get even stranger. _‘Go to the third floor, second isle on your left, right at the back behind the elevator nook.’_ Remus ogles the paper as though it’s sprouted arms and legs.

This is easily the oddest thing Remus has ever gotten out of a fortune cookie, including that time there was a dead cockroach inside.

But he certainly can’t _not_ go. Now he’s curious as all hell, and besides, as a passing, bright green umbrella helpfully reminds him, it _is_ Saint Patrick’s day. Having spent most of it out in the rain avoiding his responsibilities and being too poor to buy anything green, Remus hadn’t thought much of it. Perhaps his fortune will change? 

As soon as Remus darts out from the protective shell of the bus stop, he regrets it. The water hits him like a river, but now there’s no point going back. He quickly dashes down the street; there’s no one else on his side. He keeps up the quick pace for two blocks, until he skids to a halt at the light, pressing the traffic button. The road is full of cars. There’s a blonde woman standing next to him with an orange umbrella who gives him a disapproving look, as though he’s being wet and scruffy on purpose.

Remus retreats to an overhanging sign while he waits for the light to change. He watches the traffic lights, and then the walk signal flashes on—Remus races out across the street. He doesn’t stop running for another block, and then he abruptly turns into the second building on his right, too wet to see what it is.

It’s obvious. He stands just inside the sliding glass doors, shaking out his hair and wet clothes over the matt. It’s a very large building, with a large desk directly in front of him, stairs to the left, and bookshelves everywhere else. There are only a few people around it, and everyone’s quiet. Raining days are good for reading, but they’re better at home.

When Remus has gotten as dry as he possibly can, he slinks off towards the stairs, cringing at each crunch of his sodden shoes. He wonders vaguely if there’s a washroom around here—inside the privacy of a stall, he could probably get away with a drying charm; the Ministry’s unlikely to track something as small as that on a day like today. But there’s at least one Muggle everywhere he goes, and Remus contents himself with slowly air-drying as he reaches the third floor. It takes a minute for him to spot the elevator nook—he’s forgotten the other instructions. He makes a beeline for it.

At least the building is relatively warm inside. Remus is still brushing water out of his hair when he rounds the corner into the little enclosed space, expecting just more books. Maybe there’ll be a lucky book on jobs that only require three weeks work at a time.

Instead, Remus stops in his tracks, eyes going very wide.

He isn’t alone. There’s a man at the back wall, replacing books from a pull-cart into the shelves. The man has his back to Remus, but Remus would recognize that silky, black hair anywhere.

He takes a few steps forward as quietly as possible. The man still turns around, and Remus asks, “Severus?”

Severus Snape looks as shocked as he is. For a moment, they just stare at each other. They’re around the corner, tucked away from everyone else, and the light is relatively dim. The bookshelves tower over them, the atmosphere thick and silent. Severus puts the book he’s holding down on the cart before grunting, “Lupin.”

Remus takes another step around the cart on instinct, so that they’re barely a few centimeters apart. He can’t believe it. But it’s definitely Severus—there’s no mistaking that face, those hard angles, those dark eyes, that nose. He even _smells_ like Severus. Remus wants to reach out and touch him, just to be sure, but instead just croaks, “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Without missing a beat, Severus says, “So are you.”

Remus shakes his head. “I was badly wounded. I let them think that, then slunk away. The Ministry... hasn’t been very kind to werewolves after everything that happened under Voldemort. I... I thought I stood a better chance at a normal life in the Muggle world.” Then he can’t help it anymore; he does reach out a hand, touching Severus’ arm. Severus is wearing black dress trousers and a black, long-sleeved button up shirt. It hugs his thin frame lightly, and Remus squeezes his arm, just checking. Definitely real. Severus looks at him like he’s gone mad, but Remus doesn’t let go. “What about you? There was a funeral and everything...”

Severus makes a snorting noise. He’s still peering down at Remus’ hand, as though no one’s ever touched him before. “If you think it’s difficult being a werewolf, try having the Dark Mark.”

Remus eyes’ knit together. “You were a spy. You helped us win...”

“And murdered Dumbledore.”

Remus frowns. “Harry told us what happened. No one blames you for that.”

“You have a very off definition of ‘no one,’ Lupin.”

Remus finally lets go, even though he doesn’t really want to. His arm falls back to his side, and he realizes belatedly he’s left a wet patch on Severus’ arm. Severus doesn’t say anything. There’s an awkward pause where they just sort of stare at one another, disbelieving. Remus’ heart is beating very fast but not from running.

Then, in true Severus fashion, Severus says bluntly, “I think you’re in the wrong section; this is women’s health.”

Because Remus is incapable of missing an opportunity to be cheeky, he says, “You were here first.”

Flushing, Severus says, “I work here.”

“Oh.” That would explain the cart. In a way, it’s very strange to think of Severus as something other than a Potions Master. On the other hand, for a Muggle job, it sort of makes sense. He fits in with the eerie recesses of the library, sort of like an attractive, male version of Madam Pince. He doesn’t look a day older than he did the last time Remus saw him, even though the war aged most wizards by at least a decade. His skin doesn’t look quite so deathly sallow, and the lines under his eyes are less severe. Remus wonders vaguely if he’s adjusted well to civilian life or if, like Remus, he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself any more.

Severus raises an eyebrow, and it reminds Remus to mumble, shuffling a bit in his clinging trousers, “Ah, you wouldn’t really believe why I’m here if I told you...”

“Spotted me from a distance and thought you’d have another go?”

Remus frowns. “No, not at all, actually. But nice to know you assume I follow you around just to bother you.”

Severus scowls. “It’s been true before.”

“Well, I’m not seventeen anymore.” Remus stuffs a hand in his pocket, fishing out the crumbled, now soggy piece of paper. He thrusts it towards Severus, who warily holds out a hand. “As a matter of fact, I was eating dinner and minding my own business, when this little tidbit fell out of my fortune cookie.”

Severus stares at the paper, brow furrowed and looking as confused as Remus did. Then he holds it back out, grumbling, “Not a very fortunate cookie, then.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s the best luck I’ve ever had.” Remus pockets the paper again. He’s probably going to hold onto it. Even with Severus’ sulky demeanor, there’s a warm glow in Remus that won’t go away. He tries to show that with a hopeful smile, but Severus only continues to frown at him, looking quite as despondent as ever.

Remus sighs, and he tries to explain. “Look. This is sort of a miracle to me, alright? I went to your funeral and everything, although I stayed away behind the trees. A lot of people showed up, and I know I wasn’t the only one who cried. Seeing you again... alive and healthy... it’s... I don’t know, a second chance?” He rubs the back of his neck—Severus is looking even more confused. Before he can ask, Remus sighs, “Yes, I _cried_ over you. A lot, actually.”

Severus glances down the isle, as if he’ll see himself in bed, sleeping. Or maybe just someone coming to interrupt them. But there isn’t anyone. It’s just the two of them, alone in the Muggle world, and Remus sucks in a breath. He summons his Gryffindor courage and asks, “Would you... like to go for coffee?” And he doesn’t mean in general, he means right now, before this mirage disappears.

It looks like Severus’ eyebrows might disappear into his hairline. He takes a minute to stare at Remus, and Remus stares right back. Eventually he says, “I’m off at eight.”

Remus nods, fighting his grin. Severus picks up the book he was holding and turns to place it properly on the shelf. When he twists back around, Remus is already holding the next one. Face a little pink, Severus grumbles, “I said yes, Lupin.”

“I know.” But that’s too long to wait. It’s at least a half an hour, and Remus doesn’t want to let Severus out of his sight. Severus rolls his eyes but takes the book.

They spend the rest of the time silently putting books back, even though there’s a wealth of things to talk about. Remus follows Severus around like a lost puppy, or a hungry wolf, unwilling to let go. The sounds of the rain outside batter against the full windows, steady and soothing.

But it isn’t a miserable day anymore.


End file.
